


First Contact

by Paian



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alien Planet, Aliens Make Them Do It, Angst, Community: fic_promptly, First Time, M/M, Off-World, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-20
Updated: 2010-10-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:10:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paian/pseuds/Paian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some aliens-make-them altar porn and angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to [Maab Connor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maab_Connor)'s prompt 'the feel of his callused hands' at [Fic. Promptly.](http://fic-promptly.dreamwidth.org/)

He knows it's Jack when the hand presses his ribs, sliding firm and easy into a reassuring grip so as not to startle or threaten. He knows it's Jack's hand before the fingertip traces Jack's initials on his breastbone. He's raising his head and nodding before the finger writes the letters O and K and a question mark on his skin. He nods again, so that Jack will be sure, before he lets his head sink back into the depression in the stone, too heavy to keep raised in this position.

He knows the shape of the long, hard-boned fingers, the blunt squareness at the ends of them, the nails kept meticulously trimmed. He knows the provenance of the thickened skin on palms and knuckles, along the ridge under the base of the fingers, on the heels of the hands -- endless target practice with a multitude of weapons, rough workouts with no bag gloves in the gym, long afternoons with the weeding tool in the yard. When ten light fingertips stroke down the front of his body, pricking his nipples and contracting his abs, he knows that the protective growths on the four left pads come from hours fretting the steel-string guitar kept in a battered case in a back room, gathering dust so that no one will guess the instrument is ever pulled out to play; he knows that the hard place on the side of the right thumb was made by the raised-groove grip of a nylon pick.

He knows which areas of Jack's exoskeleton are armor for battle, and which are armor for his heart. He knows that right now, with him laid out on this altar, contoured stone spreading and raising his thighs, chafing hemp binding his wrists and ankles, they're all called on to be both.

He can't hear or see or form words; they've plugged his ears and bound his eyes and tied a stick between his teeth. The ritual magic of this act is to bring forth life essence with touch; it's an alchemy of flesh that will prove he's human. Demons can simulate tears and sweat and urine with water, but they have no life essence and thus no seed to spill; he heard that much before they filled his ears with mud. Demons are only ever male, and demons don't have foreskins; he deduced that much when they demanded exposure of the travelers' genitals to prove their sex and their humanity, and he was the only one who didn't pass.

He knows that Sam and Teal'c are nearby, restrained and probably gagged but permitted to observe. He knows they've probably closed their eyes, trying to bestow privacy, trying not to burn this memory of their teammates into their minds. That's the one thing he wishes he didn't know. He doesn't care if they see him hard. He doesn't care if they watch him come. He'd have volunteered to lie down here and publicly produce the required life essence himself if someone had given him a chance. But knowing that they know that Jack is doing this makes him cringe inside, an unstoppable reflex, an unsootheable response.

He knows how long Jack has wanted to touch him like this. He knows how hard that made it for Jack to step in and be the one to induce the evidentiary orgasm, unthinkable though it would have been to let the shaman do it, or risk the shaman deliberately doing it badly for nefarious reasons of her own, or order another member of his team to do it. Unthinkable, but almost thought, Daniel knows -- because they both know that Jack cannot ever touch him like this.

They've never talked about it, never expressed it aloud, but they've ribbed each other, warned and scolded each other, cried out to each other, consoled each other -- shared the misery and the pleasure of unconsummatable desire without ever speaking a word. Made it tolerable for each other by being there, by suffering together, by acknowledging -- by _knowing_.

He doesn't know how they'll make it tolerable now. Now that he knows how gentle Jack's hands would be on the insides of his thighs, how tender Jack's rough-skinned fingers would be with his testicles; now that Jack knows how squeezing his nipples makes his dick drip precome, how rubbing spit into his lips with the smooth fingertips of one hand while pressing the callused pads of the other against his anus will bring him to orgasm without any hand ever touching his penis.

Groaning through his gag into the silent darkness, arching up off the stone of the altar and biting deep into the wooden bar, he comes for Jack for a long time. Way longer, he knows, than he should, but Jack is stroking his anus, kissing his lips with saliva, watching his cock pulse and his skin flush and wetness dampen the blindfold, there's no holding back the power of his response to that; and Jack's fingers stay where they are for way longer than they should, riding the climax with him, feeling it with him, keeping Jack connected to him for as long as it lasts, and if he could he'd come forever, just so Jack never had to take his hands away.

The shaman slides his blindfold off, removes his gag, unplugs his ears, examines his semen. At a gesture from the shaman, village men untie his wrists and ankles. Jack cups the back of his neck and clasps his hand to help him up sitting. Sweeps a bandanna from his back pocket to gently wipe the front of him clean before helping him get his clothes and gear back on. When he's dressed and standing, it's Jack who speaks first, saying his name in a voice pitched so low that only the two of them can hear it.

"I know," Daniel says softly, and gives Jack's arm a friendly slap and double pat.

He doesn't know everything. He doesn't know whether Jack got him off with foreplay in order to preserve plausible deniability or because it was the fastest route to the objective. But he doesn't doubt that Jack knew that it would be fast, whether he took the risk of stroking and teasing or made a rough show of efficient jerking. They've known what they know about each other for too long for there to be any question about what would happen if they touched each other that way, whatever kind of touch it was.

"Show's over, kids, you can open your eyes now," Jack calls without looking over his shoulder at Sam and Teal'c.

"Are you both all right, sir?"

"Oh yeah," Jack says. His eyes, fixed on Daniel's face, are soft and searching. His voice is clear and relaxed. "The military kicks us out, we've got a promising future in the porn industry."

Now they know what it would feel like, to touch and be touched that way. The knowledge is a fresh bruise, tender and raw. It stings, and soon it will chafe, and when night comes it will deepen into a throbbing ache; by tomorrow every brush of eye contact will hurt, every conversation, every moment in the same room; and when the worst of that passes, the yearning will itch a hundred times worse than it did before. But a callus will form eventually. Another layer of natural armor to protect them from themselves.

Daniel holds Jack's gaze for one more moment, saying all the things they always say, conveying all the reassurance and regret and love they've become fluent in communicating quickly and privately. Then he takes a breath, turns a friendly, composed face to the shaman and villagers, and takes up the first contact where they left off.

**Author's Note:**

> The demon concept owes to [Cold](http://archiveofourown.org/works/67503) by Martha. The relationship characterization owes to [Silence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1229) by Kylie Lee.


End file.
